


Good Night, Dear Heart

by alexanderhammyton



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen, alexander's point of view, angst i guess holy shit, i can't tag deal with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 15:39:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6290242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanderhammyton/pseuds/alexanderhammyton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And on that day in Weehawken, former Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton was shot by Vice President Aaron Burr...and he couldn't seem to care he had a bullet in his spine...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Night, Dear Heart

**Author's Note:**

> So my first hamfic was inspired by the lovely song Good Night, Dear Heart. And for my first fic, yall can suffer with me because I'm mean. 
> 
> You can follow my tumblr @alexanderhammyton 
> 
> Here's a link to the song, both the band arrangement and the choral arrangement  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AkHJgGqSMMw  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mg-RdEdOAO8

The sun is bleeding over the horizon, the water of the river a fiery, bloody red and the leaves casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. There are no birds singing, no frogs croaking. The whole forest seems to hold its breath, and it seems all eyes are trained on a man collapsed in a clearing, scarlet blood forming an ugly halo around his torso and a gunshot still ringing in his ears. For a moment more, no one seems to move, as if all parties present are frozen to their spots, not quiet believing the events just having transpired seconds earlier. Then, one man begins to move, dropping to his knees to tend to the man bleeding his life-blood onto the grass.  


The most immediate thing, Alexander notices, is the sharp, throbbing pain consuming his chest, and the heat of the blood soaking his black coat, and the next is the coppery taste in his mouth as it fills with blood. The pain in unbearable, and yet, Alexander cannot scream. He cannot make a sound. He very dimly registers the two men hurrying about above him, _Nathaniel, David,_ and it is only when someone presses on the wound that he lets out a choked yell of pain. He hears a person shuffling around somewhere behind him, and hears the dull thud of metal hit the dirt. _Aaron_. The voices are muffled, barely audible over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. _His heartbeat._ Black dances in his vision, before completely consuming him, his eyelids dropping and the voices fading.  


~~~~~~~~  


Alexander’s next sensation is one of rocking, back and forth, and hearing the soft lapping of waves against the side of a boat. The motion is accompanied by the fire in his chest and a salty, iron taste in the back of his throat. He tries to think, to be level headed, to take stock of his injuries, like a soldier. But he cannot think, his mind is clouded by pain. His mind, always working, now is a blank canvas, an artist without a subject. And that is what Alexander thinks before a cloth closes over his mouth and nose and a bitter, unpleasant smell fills his nostrils.  


~~~~~~~~  


A room comes into focus slowly, along with the sensation of a warm hand around his and a flurry of activity, the small voices of children. His children. But not all of them. Phillip. Young, bright Phillip, snatched from this word too soon, taken from him and his darling Eliza.  


Eliza. That’s her hand around his, and that’s her voice whispering in his ear. And clinging to her hip is Little Phil, a shock of curly hair atop his head, before Alex Jr. comes and gathers him into his arms. They all wait, for the inevitable.  


~~~~~~~~  


Alexander is floating, floating, and he doesn’t care. It’s the laudanum, he knows, numbing his pain, and now he wishes he could give some to his Eliza, to numb her pain. He can hear them discussing him, out of his line of sight.  


_Paralysis ___.  


_Naturally_ , he thinks, _a fitting end_ , at least for him. Alexander Hamilton, always running, running to the finish, non-stop. He knew that he was dead long ago, of course, in the clearing, as soon as he stared down the barrel of Burr’s gun.  


Eliza returns to him, settling down at his side and pulling his hand to hers. The children have been sent out for the time, and now it is just them in this strange room that isn’t theirs. He will die here, he knows. He heard the doctor talking. And his poor, poor Eliza, witness to Philip, her sister, and now to him, will have to suffer on without him. _All for the best ___, perhaps. Oh, how he has disgraced her, how he has tarnished her reputation. She is too good for him, his Eliza. Far too good for him.  


His eyes catch the clock on the wall, _tick-tock, tick-tock,_ and has it really been that long already? Laudanum will certainly pass the time, but he wishes it to be over. Alexander has lost count of the times he’s wanted this to be over. At seventeen, the hurricane, at twenty-seven, Laurens, at thirty-six, the Reynolds affair. He closes his eyes again.  


~~~~~~~~~  


The last time Alexander wakes, Eliza is still by his side, and his children are huddled in a far corner. The somber feeling hangs in the air like the summer heat, and it’s nearly suffocating. Not that it would make a difference to Alexander.  


He can’t stop talking. He talks to Eliza, spilling his heart to her, all the things he never said, and he thinks of the letter he wrote her the morning before. He talks to his children, giving them instructions. To Alex Jr. he gives instructions to look after his mother, his siblings, continue his schooling. He talks to Little Phil too, although he is only two years old and doesn’t understand. He tells him of Phillip, and that he should never forget him. All of this, of course, goes right over Phil’s head, who just squirms in Alex Jr.’s arms.  


Alexander slips into a fuzzy, half –conscious state around noon, again dosed with laudanum. Any time now.  


_John_ , he thinks, _I’m coming, John_. And he is, soon enough, God willing. He will see his Laurens again. He loves Eliza, of course, with every fiber of his being, but that love is a slow, burning sort of love. His love for Laurens was a flash of white-hot passion that rang through him like lightning, leaving him breathless and exhilarated.  


He will see his mother again soon, he imagines, and Washington, of course. And Phillip. And the irony is killing him at this moment, because whole scene is a dead-ringer for that fateful day over three years earlier, although, he must admit, his is a lot more peaceful, drugged out of his head, his entire family surrounding him. Phillip’s death was violent, the bullet ripping his insides to shreds and killing him within hours.  


His breathing becomes labored and ragged, his head is spinning. He speaks for the final time, _Eliza_ , before his eyelids flutter and close. _John, John, I’m almost there, Love_. And finally, it is over. No more.  


_John __._


End file.
